There’s not much that surprises me these days, but Lady Worsley’s Whim managed to repeatedly elevate the papal eyebrows. The story centres around an infamous crim-con trial that took place on 21 February 1782 between Sir Richard Worsley, Governor of the Isle of Wight, and George Bisset, an officer (but not a gentleman) and one-time friend of Worsley. Despite having encouraged a close relationship between Bisset and his wife, Worsley thought it outrageous when the pair ran off together, and claimed £20,000 in damages. Already a wealthy man, the astronomical sum was designed to reduce his enemy to penury.

Sir Richard’s willingness to assign a purely financial value to the loss of his wife was entirely in character. He was a decidedly cold fish who was far more interested in collecting artefacts and bolstering his social status. Impervious to the charms of young heiress Seymour Dorothy Fleming, he had eyes only for her £70,000 fortune (equivalent to around £66m today). Once she had become Lady Worsley and divested herself of both identity and assets, Sir Richard was no longer interested in her. Lady Worsley remained a virgin until three months after their marriage, when her husband reluctantly did his duty and sired an heir.

Bored witless with little to distract her, Lady Worsley made her own entertainment. On one occasion she and two friends went on a three-day rampage, culminating in setting fire to a room in an inn:

‘How do you think they quenched the flame their own fair selves had caused? They did not call water! Water!, it was more at hand …’ these three well-bred young ladies, who had been taught to dance, embroider and lisp sweetly in French, lifted their silk skirts ‘and fairly pissed it out …’

Even this distinctly unladylike behaviour was insufficient to attract her husband’s attention.

When Sir Richard met Bisset, he thought his prayers had been answered. Here was a dashing officer who fulfilled his homosocial needs and his wife’s sexual appetites. Bisset was invited to live with couple in a bizarre ménage à trois, with Sir Richard acting as voyeur while the other two amused themselves. He even seemed nonplussed when his wife became pregnant with Bisset’s child. This phlegmatic husband made little attempt to disguise his complicity in his wife’s liaison – at one crucial point he allowed Bisset to stand on his shoulders so he could watch the naked Lady Worsley getting dressed after a swim. This was to become ‘the most regrettable day of his life’, as we shall see.

Bisset and Lady Worsley’s relationship blossomed into love and they decided it would be quite nice to enjoy one another without her husband peering at them. They crept off into the night on 19 November 1781, taking up residence in a London hotel. Sir Richard finally discovered some virility at this point. Adultery was one thing, but his wife had destroyed the sanctity of marriage and his friend had thumbed his nose at the fraternal bond. Humiliated by his cuckold’s horns, Sir Richard invoked the full force of husbandly privilege, denying his estranged wife both money and any of her personal effects. She had only the clothes she wore on the night of the elopement and was entirely reliant on her lover, despite having provided an impressive dowry. As a wife, she had no right to her other clothes and jewels, worth an astonishing £15 million in today’s money.

The subsequent court case didn’t reflect well on anyone. As a mere woman, Lady Worsley had no right to defend herself, and the only tactic left to her was to prove she wasn’t worth the £20,000 damages claimed by Sir Richard. A seemingly endless succession of young bucks took to the witness stand to testify to having satisfied Lady Worsley’s whims, thereby branding her a worthless trollope. The judge consequently awarded damages of just one shilling, also denouncing the wronged husband as a foolish pervert. The crux of the case was his encouraging Bisset to watch his naked wife, so it was very clear that he had brought about his own downfall.

Perhaps inevitably, Bisset soon tired of his notorious lover and found himself a respectable wife.  The redoubtable Lady Worsley ended up in revolutionary Paris, embarking upon a new life and many adventures. Fortunately, Sir Richard died young enough for her to reclaim some of her fortune and find happiness with a much younger husband. Lady Worsley’s tenacity is both astonishing and humbling. Although rendered impotent by the law, she refused to tolerate the machinations of her sadistic, calculating husband. At a time when the only thing wives possessed was their virtue, she was willing to sacrifice it in order to extricate herself from an invidious position.

Hallie Rubenhold has done her subject justice by allowing her story to be heard and also setting it carefully in its historical context, thereby emphasising the remarkable nature of Lady Worsley’s actions. Rubenhold’s narrative skill is as remarkable as her subject. I found it impossible to put the book down and my knuckles were white from gripping it so tightly through all the twists and turns. The historical and legal detail is skilfully interwoven with the story, without either dominating or slowing it down. An extraordinary book about an extraordinary woman.

Lady Worsley’s Whim is available in paperback and Kindle editions.

Having recently drawn attention to Trollope’s less successful works, it seems only fair to trumpet one of his finer novels. The Golden Lion of Granpère (1872) is a short but perfectly-formed tale of love and unreasonable patriarchs, set against a richly-drawn backdrop of provincial France.

The Lion d’Or is a small town hotel, owned by the ambitious Michel Voss. He lives there with his son George, his second wife and her niece, Marie Bromar. Perhaps inevitably, Marie and George fall in love, thereby incurring the Jehovah-like wrath of Michel. He believes that each of them could make a more advantageous marriage, conferring greater wealth and influence upon the family. After consent to the couple’s engagement is refused unequivocally, George stomps off in a fit of pique to another town, remaining on non-speakers with his family for a whole year.

Meanwhile, Michel is keen that Marie should instead marry Adrian Urmand, a prosperous linen-buyer from Basle who dazzles Granpere with his urbanity and fancy ways. Marie is unimpressed, however: “George Voss was a real man; whereas Adrian Urmand, tried by such a comparison, was in her estimation simply a rich trader in want of a wife.” His fondness for jewellery and clothes no doubt leads Marie to think that he’d be spending more time in front of the bathroom mirror than attending to her needs.

Michel is displeased by his niece’s intransigence. As a misogynist of the Jurassic order, he thinks women should do exactly what they’re told and “it was always a sign of high good humour on the part of Michel Voss, when he spoke of his wife as being anybody in the household.” His considered opinion of Marie’s failure to bend to his will is: “Young women are queer cattle to take to market. One can never be quite certain which way they want to go.” Well, Marie does know which way she wants to go, and struggles not to be cowed (sorry) into submission.

The Golden Lion of Granpère is one of Trollope’s so-called “single-issue” novels and, as such, is tightly-plotted and narrow in focus. Trollope clearly enjoys himself in delineating the sexist monster Voss, and then taking him down a peg or two. Although this character is meant to be ridiculous, the suggestion lingers that Marie is wrong to disobey him: even a foolish and misguided man trumps a woman. Still, it wouldn’t be Trollope if he didn’t make my chauvinist antenna start wobbling. This grumble aside, it’s an engaging and charming story for those with a taste for Trollope’s less dramatic works.

The book is currently out of print, but there are a few very cheap second-hand copies on Amazon.  There’s also a good-quality free Kindle edition.

Come and hear the Perfect Author talking about the Perfect Man! This promises to be a great evening. If you can’t be there, you can find out more about the book on the website.

David Waller will give an illustrated talk on the life and muscular times of Eugen Sandow, the Victorian strongman who is the subject of his new book The Perfect Man. The talk will take place at 6.30 for 7pm on 22nd February at the  Savile Club, 69 Brook Street, London W1, with optional dinner afterwards. The cost for wine and the talk is £10 while the three course dinner with wine, chocolates and coffee is a further £30 (which is actually quite reasonable given the food is excellent).

To reserve tickets contact Maja at the Savile on 020 7491 5563 or maja@savileclub.co.uk

Following last week’s paean to Trollope’s moments of brilliance, I must now turn the papal eye on his less successful efforts. It’s not to say that the novels listed below are without merit, rather that they left me either unmoved or very cross.

So, here are the stinkers, in no particular order:

The Belton Estate

Trollope is at his most reprehensible in this novel, carefully delineating the wrongs of women, but then desperately clinging to the status quo of primogeniture and wifely submission.

The story is of a young woman, Clara Amedroz, who vacillates between two suitors: her bucolic but passionate cousin Will, heir to her father’s entailed farm, and Captain Aylmer, an urbane but unemotional MP tied to his rebarbative mother’s apron strings. There is no option for Clara to remain single, as she is financially dependent upon men. She dramatically articulates her frustration: “I think it would be well if all single women were strangled by the time they are thirty.”

Although Clara herself is an admirable creation, Trollope’s reiterated argument that she should “suffer and be still” incurred my wrath and made me want to slap him.

The Claverings

This is one of Trollope’s many tales involving a dithering wastrel of a “hero” who can’t decide between a virginal wife and one who has been around the block a few times. Harry Clavering is drawn towards middle-class respectability with Florence Burton, but finds himself unable to resist the allure of the glamorous and widowed Julia Brabazon.

Julia is by far the most engaging character and should be the heroine of the tale; instead she is punished for behaving as good Victorian girls should, by making an advantageous marriage. Here Trollope shows toe-curling timidity, repeatedly punishing Julia for marrying a husband she didn’t love, yet rewarding the snivelling invertebrate Harry for his indecisiveness and intertia. Bah.

The American Senator

The eponymous Senator is Elias Gotobed, whose curious name alludes to that fact that he has a tendency to send people to sleep. Alas, the story he inhabits had a similar effect on me.

The Senator travels to England to undertake a study of English life, managing to inveigle his way into a stately home. He is fiercely critical of British society and perplexed by many of its customs. His valedictory lecture nearly causes a riot when he shares his views with the assembled throng. This character seems to have little merit beyond a narrative device, enabling Trollope to be vicariously rude about his countrymen.

The one redeeming feature is Arabella Trefoil, an alpha female intent on bagging the wealthiest possible husband. Trollope means to be critical of her, but her ability to make the best of a bad situation is laudable. The American Senator is often praised as one of Trollope’s best comic novels, but I cannot agree. Beyond the exquisite Miss Trefoil, it is little more than a rather weasly satire on English society.

The Small House at Allington

This is a controversial choice, as I know it is a favourite of many fellow Trollopites. Although it’s the penultimate Chronicle of Barsetshire, it blends in with the others like an orange in a coal heap.

My main objection can be summarised in two words: Lily Dale. Uggghhh. She plunges herself into “perpetual widowhood” for a man who is entirely without merit and considers herself legally bound to him. I wondered whether their relationship had been consummated, and she therefore felt unable to give herself to another man. In any case, she really needed to pull herself together, rather than moping about like a particularly morose Emo.

Mr Scarborough’s Family

I likened this one to a Tory party political broadcast, which is serious condemnation. The story begins well, with a King Lear moment in which the eponymous Mr Scarborough tries to decide which of his unworthy sons should inherit his considerable wealth. What follows is endless depictions of nasty, selfish people, with whom one is inclined to feel little sympathy.

The eldest son, Mountjoy, is a charmless little herbert who has accumulated eye-watering gambling debts in anticipation of his inheritance. Younger son Augustus can’t wait for his father to die so he can get his hands on the money. Scarborough Père tries to thwart them by declaring them illegitimate one moment, and then legitimising them again through the cunning use of multiple marriage certificates.

The only scenes I enjoyed were those involving Matilda Thoroughbung, a young woman on the cusp of marriage who enquiries as to what she can expect in return for her dowry. She points out that the advent of women’s rights means men can no longer rob vulnerable women: “A young woman doesn’t get taken in as she used to do … Since woman’s rights have come up a young woman is better able to fight her own battle.” Quite.

The Macdermots of Ballycloran

This was Trollope’s first novel, and it shows. Although the family saga is certainly lively, the narrative is rambling and bowing under the weight of supposedly phonetic dialogue. Trollope does a sterling job of recreating the pre-famine Ireland he witnessed during the early years of his post office career, but there’s an over-reliance on the stereotypical potheen, potatoes and peasants.

La Vendée

Conversely, Trollope knew absolutely nothing about the La Vendée region of France, so there aren’t even any beautifully-drawn scenes to relive the tedium of the turgid narrative. Set during the French Revolution, Trollope shows what happens when the common folk forget their place. It was his only attempt at historical fiction, for which fact we must remain grateful.

The Kellys and the O’Kellys

Another Irish family saga, although more polished than The Macdermots. I didn’t find it engaging at all, except for the terrifying sub-plot in which Barry Lynch attempts to force his sister Anty into an asylum in order than he might inherit her share of the family fortune. When this bid fails, he instead tries to murder her. Thankfully, the good are ultimately rewarded with happy marriages and the bad are parcelled off to Boulogne to think over what they’ve done.

Castle Richmond

The only aspect of this novel I can remember is the intensely moving descriptions of Ireland during the famine. They haunted me for weeks afterwards, and must have left an indelible mark on Trollope’s mind after he witnessed them for himself.

Otherwise, it’s an unmemorable tale of wealthy aristocrats living in County Cork who spend their time fretting about inheritance. Trollope himself thought it a failure, and the story is certainly very weak.

The Bertrams

In his Autobiography Trollope wrote of The Bertrams: “I do not know that I have ever heard it well spoken of, even by my friends, and I cannot remember that there is any character in it that has dwelt in the minds of novel-readers.” That’s a fair assessment. Again it’s an inheritance plot, but this time involving a somewhat incongruous detour to the Holy Land.

The story comprises many people called Bertram, and most of them are unhappy. Bleak, boring and bloated.

As I wrote of Trollope in an earlier post: when he good he’s very, very good, but when he’s bad he’s terrible. Still, given he wrote 47 novels, they weren’t all going to be corkers. Also, it’s purely subjective, as I know there are readers who would staunchly defend some of the aforementioned novels. Trollope’s diversity is one of his great strengths, and it would be very dull if we all responded to his novels with one voice.

Please do let me know what you think.

A comment from a fellow Trollope enthusiast has prompted me to post an update on the Trollope Challenge. I finished my 47th and final novel in November last year, although was too frantically busy with Mr Muscles to write any reviews. Anyway, the experience was a Mixed Bag, although immensely enjoyable. Trollope was an extremely varied writer, both in terms of subject matter and quality. With the emphasis invariably on the Palliser novels and Barsetshire Chronicles, it’s easy to forget that he was a great experimenter in style and setting.

I’ve chosen below, in no particular order, my favourite Trollope novels. They’re not always necessarily the best-written, but those that most piqued my interest. All of them are a good read, however, showcasing Trollope’s considerable creative talents.

Can You Forgive Her?

Rudely referred to by Stephen King as Can You Finish It?, this novel is long, but utterly absorbing. Using the theme of “What should a woman do with her life,” Trollope portrays four expertly-drawn characters who all make very different choices. Of course, it is also the first instalment of the great Palliser Saga, and introduces us to the beguiling Lady Glencora, who must choose between the worthless but charming Burgo Fitzgerald, and the slightly dull but reliable Plantagenet Palliser.

Rachel Ray

Although in Rachel Ray Trollope sought to confine himself to the “commonest details of the commonplace life,” the novel is anything but dull. Luke Rowan returns to the pastoral idyll of Baslehurst to involve himself with the family brewing firm. He annoys the wife of his business partner by eschewing the charms of her daughter, instead falling for the rustic ingenue Rachel Ray. Comic relief is provided by Mr Prong the curate, who is determined to drag Rachel’s widowed sister Mrs Prime up the aisle so he can get his paws on her income. Beguiling and thought-provoking.

The Prime Minister

This isn’t the best-written of Trollope’s novels, but it contains one his finest creations: Ferdinand Lopez. Lopez is a devilishly handsome adventurer of Portuguese-Jewish descent, hell-bent on acquiring infinite riches and the hand of Emily Wharton, daughter of a wealthy barrister. When his inevitable downfall occurs, he throws himself in front of an express train and is blown to “bloody atoms”, in an utterly unforgettable scene worthy of Zola. Lopez completely subsumes the plot, but he is a worthy cynosure.

The Vicar of Bullhampton

Following an unplanned dip her friend’s pond, Mary Lowther realises she cannot marry a man she doesn’t love. Her friends point out that, as a mere woman, she ought to be grateful for the offer, and she relents. Needless to say, it doesn’t go well. Her marital misery is contrasted with Mr and Mrs Fenwick, who remain in a permanent state that not every union is as felicitous as their own.

Trollope’s examination of the Woman Question is better executed in some of his other work, but the eponymous Vicar is what really makes this novel sparkle. He is a veritable Jeremy Kyle, obliged to deal with an endless stream of seemingly intractable problems amongst his parishioners, only without the biting.

The Fixed Period

Many Trollopites would rather forget The Fixed Period, as this futuristic novel is a radical and unexpected departure for their idol. Imagine Thomas Pynchon writing a chick lit novel, or Maeve Binchy turning her hand to slash fiction.

The story is set in 1980 in the fictional republic of Britannula, created when a group of ex-pats occupy the South Island of New Zealand and claim independence from Great Britain. The peaceful republic is thrown into disarray when President Neverbend introduces his pet theory of the Fixed Period. Concerned that people should not be allowed to outlive their usefulness, he introduces a programme of mandatory euthanasia for anyone reaching the age of 67 and a half.

Trollope’s imagination soars when he predicts mobile telephony and podcasting, but fails him when he suggests that the brave new world still involves a hereditary upper chamber and cricket. Darkly comedic and immensely entertaining.

Barchester Towers

Part Two of the infamous Chronicles of Barsetshire, the story begins with the death of the Bishop, followed by a great deal of manoeuvering amongst those who seek to fill the much-coveted position. The triumphant candidate is Thomas Proudie, although it is his wife who wears the cassock in their household. Mrs Proudie – the “Medea of Barchester” – is perhaps Trollope’s most famous character and one of his finest comic creations. The plot mainly concerns her battles with the ambitious and oleaginous Obadiah Slope, who is determined to bend the Bishop to his will. The confrontations between Mrs Proudie and Slope are brilliantly drawn and sublimely funny.

Incisive, entertaining and provocative, Barchester Towers provides unalloyed delight.

Harry Heathcote of Gangoil

Sheep-farming in the Australian outback might seem like an odd topic for Trollope, an author known best for his forensic analysis of English society. However, he was intimately acquainted with the Antipodes after bankrolling his son’s grand plan to settle in the outback.

Like Fred Trollope, Harry Heathcote is a young Englishman who has leased 120,000 acres of Gangoil bush from the Australian government to graze his 30,000 sheep. Unlike Fred, he is successful, but a growing sense of paranoia gets a grip on him. His inability to trust anyone almost brings about his downfall, and redemption occurs only when he resolves to challenge his prejudices.

The economical style and dramatic setting make this an unexpected and refreshing departure from Trollope’s usual style.

The Way We Live Now

Often referred to as the most “Dickensian” of Trollope’s novels, The Way We Live Now is a scathing attack on the dwindling morality of the mid-Victorian period and the “commercial profligacy of the age”.

The glittering cast of characters is headed by Augustus Melmotte, an entrepreneur of dubious provenance who seeks social advantage through his immense wealth. He angles to pair his timorous daughter Marie with an aristocrat who can confer respectability and lineage upon his house.

Feckless baronets are queueing up for her hand, hypnotised by their prospective father-in-law’s fortune, and are drawn into his web of fraud and speculation. Melmotte’s vertiginous rise and inevitable fall transfixes the reader, and the fates of those who are dragged down with him are told with great poignancy. Dark, but brilliant.

John Caldigate

In this extraordinary novel, Trollope examines the issue of a man’s right to a sexual past. In an age when female purity was privileged above all, it was a daring diversion. John Caldigate finds himself trapped in a quasi-engagement after joining the race to find gold in New South Wales. His fiancée is Euphemia Smith, a woman no better than she ought to be, who combines tenacity with wickedness. Leaving her behind, Caldigate returns to England and marries the respectable and saintly Hester Bolton. All is well until some unwelcome faces from the past resurface and accuse Caldigate of bigamy.

The plot is engaging and surprising, with the denouement involving a postage stamp. Yes, really.

Nina Balakta

Published anonymously, Nina Balakta is one of Trollope’s least-known works. It is also one of his most beautiful. Trollope wrote his story after a visit to Prague, in what was then Bohemia. The city was a hotbed of racial tension between Jews and Christians, and the problem there was much greater than in other parts of Europe.

Nina Balakta is the daughter of an impoverished and sickly merchant. The family’s fortunes rely on her making a good marriage, and it seems as though their future is secured when Nina’s cousin, the charmless Karil Zamenoy, asks for her hand in marriage. Much to her Aunt Sophie’s disgust, Nina declares herself to be in love with Anton Trendellsohn, a wealthy Jewish merchant whose father owns the house in which they live. Much conflict and emotion ensues.

A thoroughly enjoyable, if at times heart-breaking, Bohemian rhapsody.

What does everyone else think? No doubt some will think I’m talking nonsense, but I can take it.

Next week I shall follow with Ten Terrible Trollopes, thereby showing that he didn’t always get it right.

The opening of Ralph the Heir (1871) is marred slightly by a preponderance of Ralph Newtons. One is heir to the estate of Newton Priory and thoroughly unworthy of the honour; the other is his cousin, an affectionate and scholarly type who everyone would prefer to inherit the family wealth.

In anticipation of his fortune, Bad Ralph has racked up a considerable debt to his breechesmaker, the ambitious Mr Neefit. Eyeing the prospect of social advantage, Neefit pledges to write off the debt and provide a £20,000 dowry if Ralph agrees to marry his daughter, Polly. He waxes lyrical as to her advantages and youthful charms: “There ain’t no mistake there, Mr. Newton; no paint; no Madame Rachel; no made beautiful for ever! It’s human nature what you see there, Mr. Newton.” Poor Polly has no interest in her impecunious suitor, protesting: “I’m not going to be given away, you know, like a birthday present, out of a shop. There’s nobody can give me away, father,–only myself.” She knows her place, and her own mind.

Polly’s heart belongs to Ontario Moggs, the son of a successful bootmaker who is angling to become a politician (he has taken over from Septimus Traffic as my favourite Trollope name). Trollope lavishes disdain on Moggs as one who is trying to get above his station, eschewing his trade and instead lecturing on the rights of man at the Cheshire Cheese pub. We know that Trollope disapproves of his nascent socialist as he endows him with the belief that women should be enfranchised. Moggs fights Ralph’s guardian Sir Thomas Underwood for a seat in the general election, a series of scenes based on Trollope’s own failed Westminster ambitions.

Along with Mr Neefit and his breeches, Underwood provides much of the novel’s comic relief. Now an old man, he has been working on his Life of Bacon (the philosopher, rather than piggy products) since the age of 25 and still hasn’t written a single word. He is paralysed with self-doubt, a position with which many PhD researchers will sympathise.

Elsewhere, the narrative is more contemplative, with Trollope seemingly transported to Elsinore and remarking that it is

“impossible to keep down the conviction that everything is vanity, that the life past has been vain from folly, and that life to come must be vain from impotence. It is the presence of thoughts such as these that needs the assurance of a heaven to save the thinker from madness or from suicide. It is when the feeling of this prevailing vanity is strongest on him, that he who doubts of heaven most regrets is incapacity for belief.”

He apologises for presenting the reader with an “indifferent hero”, but pleads that we should be “taught to see the men and women among whom we really live”.

Like George Hotspur in Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite, Ralph has a “double memory, and a second identity”. He is able to justify his actions to himself and to view them in an artificial light. In his Autobiography, Trollope described Ralph the Heir as “one of the worst novels I have written,” concluding that “a novelist after fifty should not write love-stories.” It’s really not that bad, although is certainly a curate’s egg. There are comic flashes, political shenanigans and some moving outbreaks of filial affection. And, of course, there is the nominative delight of Ontario Moggs.

There is a Nonsuch Classics edition of Ralph the Heir currently in print, and second-hand copies of the Oxford World’s Classics edition are also available. ManyBooks offer a good-quality Kindle edition.

Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite (1871) is Trollope’s most comfortless novel, and also the one with the most alliterative title (almost impossible to pronounce reliably after half a glass of sherry).

Following the tragic death of his son and heir, Sir Harry Hotspur is forced to rewrite his will. The glorious title must go to his cousin, a useless article called George Hotspur, but Sir Henry is determined that he shouldn’t also get his wealth. He bequeaths all his property to daughter Emily, hoping that she will marry a decent chap prepared to take his wife’s name. Alas, Emily is a feisty minx who refuses to marry the chinless wonder her parents have chosen, instead falling in love with the feckless George.

Although aware that George isn’t exactly a pillar of the community, Emily is convinced that he requires only her love in order to effect a Damascean conversion. George is fond of her in his own way, but sees her as little more than a cash cow and an expedient means of settling his stratospheric gambling debts. His true affections lie with hard-working actress Lucy Morton, of whose earnings he regularly avails himself. Evidence of his roguery abounds, but he sets himself the Herculean task of convincing Sir Harry that he is a suitable husband for his only child.

Sir Harry fears that George will give Emily venereal disease and be “endangered by the marriage”. Consequently, he insists that his prospective son-in-law is effectively quarantined before giving his blessing, as situation George finds unbearable.

In his Autobiography, Trollope wrote that Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite (1871) “…had for its object the telling of some pathetic incident in life rather than the portraiture of a number of human beings.” As such, it is among his single-issue novels, with a limited cast and tight focus. Trollope rummages around in the consciousness of George, a character for whom he has no love:

“He was able, though steeped in worthlessness, so to make for himself a double identity as to imagine and to personify a being who should really possess fine and manly aspiration with regard to a woman, and to look upon himself as that being.”

The author’s sympathy is reserved entirely for the women who George mistreats, believing bigamy to be the ultimate solution to his problem: “A man might be fond of two dogs, or have two pet horses, and why shouldn’t he love two women!” He might then have the best of both worlds: Lucy Morton indulges his love of tobacco, alcohol and gambling, whereas the refined, but wealthy, Emily Hotspur takes a dim view. Emily’s spirited defence of her wastrel cousin is difficult to fathom; possibly it presents a rare opportunity for her to exercise autonomy.

Emily exists purely to continue the Hotspur line, destined to become utterly inconsequential should she produced an heir. Sir Harry’s dead son is far more important to him than his living daughter.  Lucy is “added to the list of women who have sacrificed themselves on behalf of men whom they have known to be worthless.” Both end up throughly miserable, thanks to the selfishness of one man. A furious Trollope denounces him as “a brute, unredeemed by any one manly gift; idle, self-indulgent, false, and without principle.” The ending is poignant, but utterly bleak.

While the emotional intensity of Trollope’s writing is remarkable, the concomitant misery is almost unbearable in places. Rarely does Trollope present a male protagonist without a single redeeming feature – he lays on the wickedness with a trowel. As the story was serialised when the Married Woman’s Property Act was making its way through Parliament, Trollope was perhaps more mindful than ever as to the inequitable position of wives. Lucy’s property must be ceded immediately to a husband, and Lucy Morton works tirelessly to support an indolent parasite. An aristocrat is compared unfavourably with an actress, a profession at the very bottom of the Victorian social scale. Trollope’s writing is almost Dickensian in its polemicism, and rendered unforgettable by its brutal realism.

Second-hand copies of Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite are a tad pricey but there’s a good-quality free Kindle edition on ManyBooks.

Sheep-farming in the Australian outback might seem like an odd topic for Trollope, an author known best for his forensic analysis of English society. In fact, he spent some time there after his son Fred became a “squatter”. Squatters were settlers who appropriated huge swathes of uncultivated bushland, initially illegally, and later under license from the Crown. Those who possessed the necessary tenacity and acumen could amass immense wealth, enabling them to build flashy houses and emulate the landowning classes of the motherland. Unfortunately, Fred Trollope seems to have suffered a want of pluck and application, and ended up losing thousands of his father’s hard-earned pounds.

If not remunerative, Trollope Père’s adventures did at least irrigate the fertile plains of his imagination. He embraced the dubious sport of kangaroo hunting, although was less enamoured of the Australian refusal to observe social niceties. Keen to maintain standards, the Trollopes had taken their cook with them, who repaid them by running off with a bushman at the first opportunity. Any chance of forming a beautiful relationship between the two countries was scuppered when a bitter Trollope subsequently denounced his antipodean acquaintances in a series of distinctly snotty articles for the Daily Telegraph.

The hero of Harry Heathcote of Gangoil (1874) is based partly on Fred Trollope. Heathcote is a young Englishman who has leased 120,000 acres of Gangoil bush from the Australian government to graze his 30,000 sheep. His anger is roused when neighbour Giles Medlicot purchases the land between Gangoil and the river to build a sugar plantation. Further animosity arises when some men dismissed by Heathcote go to work for Medlicot. Heathcote convinces himself that they are planning to destroy his land and accordingly he treats them in a high-handed manner, thereby increasing the enmity. Matters are not helped when Medlicot has the audacity to fall in love with Heathcote’s sister-in-law. When the Brownbie gang arrives intent on destruction, there is a bitter skirmish and Heathcote finally realises who his true friends are.

Heathcote’s growing sense of paranoia is brilliantly drawn. He is suspicious of everybody and everything, anxiously pacing his territory during the prolonged dry season, just in case someone is careless with a Swan Vesta. His inability to trust anyone almost brings about his downfall, and redemption occurs only when he resolves to challenge his prejudices.

There is little of Trollope’s caustic wit. Instead, he develops a minatory atmosphere and builds the tension, in a style reminiscent of Magnus Mill’s black humour. In that respect, Harry Heathcote is more akin to The Fixed Period than any of Trollope’s other novels. The economical style and dramatic setting make for a refreshing and exciting excursion to the other side of the world.

Harry Heathcote of Gangoil isn’t currently in print but there are some reasonably-priced second-hand editions on Amazon. There’s also a good-quality Kindle edition.

Imagine an intoxicating narrative with more twists and turns than Downton Abbey (without the red flags), and flashes of M R James, Sarah Waters and Wilkie Collins. That is what Essie Fox has achieved with her debut novel, The Somnambulist, a story that continues to haunt the reader long after the final page has been reached.

Phoebe Turner is a 17-year-old girl living in the East End of London with Maud, her Evangelical Christian mother. Maud has declared implacable war on sin, campaigning for theatres and bars to be closed and an end to all fun. She disapproves of her glamorous sister Cissy who sings on the stage at Wilton’s Music Hall, although Phoebe adores her. When Cissy dies of an overdose, Phoebe is distraught and finds herself trapped in a circumscribed and impoverished world. There is a welcome turn of events when the wealthy and mysterious Nathaniel Samuels offers her a position as companion to his wife. Leaving her old life behind, Phoebe travels to Dinwood Court, the Samuels’ labyrinthine Herefordshire mansion, described disarmingly as an “idyll of peace and perfection, an oasis, an Eden, a heaven on earth.” Lydia, her laudanum-addicted mistress, is a complete recluse with a tendency to sleepwalk and mutter about her troubled past. Phoebe is inexorably drawn into the family’s dark web of lies, gradually uncovering the truth about both them and herself.

Essie Fox creates an almost unbearable level of tension, and Phoebe’s terror is at times palpable as she embarks upon a long awakening. The plot seems to follow a well-trodden path, but suddenly veers off in an entirely different direction, with the author cleverly subverting classic sensation novel tricks.

As creator of the super Virtual Victorian blog, Essie’s eye for detail is extraordinary and accurate, with her scenes vividly drawn. Fin-de-siècle London is brought to life with an eerie glow, contrasting with the dazzling opening scenes set at Wilton’s. The descriptions of Dinwood Court are a delicious Gothic confection with spookiness lurking behind every door, like a malevolent advent calendar.

The sleepwalking theme suggested by the title is cleverly adumbrated throughout the novel, with a pervading sense of ghostliness and phantasmagoria. There are more literal allusions, too, with references to Millais’ painting The Somnambulist, which recently sold at auction for a surprisingly low £75K and was said to have been inspired by The Woman in White.

The Somnambulist is an exciting, intelligent and compelling novel, and I can’t wait for the next one. Glorious.

The Somnambulist is available in hardback and Kindle editions. There’s also a stunning website to accompany the book.

I must confess to have been initially sceptical at the title’s claim of “worst” husband. Having spent much of the last few years rummaging through historical divorce papers, I know there are many ghastly contenders for that dubious honour. Andrew Robinson Stoney was described by his own father as “the most wretched man I ever knew”, and he was to showcase his ghastliness on Mary Eleanor Bowes, the eighteenth century’s richest heiress (and great-great-great-grandmother of the late Queen Mother).

Mary was worth around £100m in today’s money, making her a considerable prize for an intrepid fortune seeker. Although of humble origins, Stoney contrived to fight a duel over Mary’s honour, feigning a fatal injury. In his supposedly final hours, the gallant hero rasped that his dying wish was to marry Mary. Advised by three medical men that the end was nigh, Mary consented, even though she was carrying the child of Stoney’s rival. Shortly after the wedding, Stoney effected a Lazarus-like recovery, and found the strength to regularly beat his wife within an inch of her life.

The violence was relentless, with Stoney regularly pinching, kicking or slapping Mary. He warned her not to tell anyone, forcing her to tell stories of walking into doors or falling down the stairs. When displeased with her appearance, he would hack off her hair with shears. As Moore writes: “Watching her every movement, Stoney exerted control over the clothes Mary wore, the visitors she received, the conversations she held, the food that she ate, the journeys she undertook and every aspect of her daily life from morning until night with a pathological eye for detail.”

Mary’s wealth was tied up in a trust, beyond the reach of her acquisitive brute of a husband. After plotting and scheming, he bullied a befuddled and beaten Mary into signing over her fortune, thereby gaining full dominion. With a full purse, Stoney became a man about town, taking full advantage of his elevated status, while Mary remained at home, repenting her haste at leisure. To mark their first wedding anniversary on New Year’s Day, Stoney chillingly informed Mary that his resolution was to make that year even more miserable than the last.

He was as good as his word, and Mary’s life became increasingly circumscribed. She had been a talented botanist, growing an impressive range of plants and a reputation as a pioneering horticulturist. Stoney deliberately released hares to destroy her flowers, finally selling her beloved gardens and greenhouses to fund his debauched lifestyle. Stoney delighted himself with developing new forms of psychological abuse, but this did not stop him from burning his wife’s face with a candle or stabbing her in the tongue with a pen nib. His cruelty knew no bounds. The servants were powerless to intervene, and many of the maids were repeatedly raped by their depraved master.

Some readers might be incredulous that Mary tolerated such behaviour and didn’t simply remove herself from the situation. There was nothing, however, to prevent Stoney from doing exactly as he pleased. In the eighteenth century, a husband exercised complete control over the household – wife and servants alike were his property. Once Mary had been coerced into signing over her inheritance, she was completely penniless, forced even to borrow underwear from her maid. When she did finally flee the marital home, Mary had no means of supporting herself and had to leave behind her beloved children (also the property of Stoney).

Moore describes the subsequent divorce 1786 case as: “A staggering triumph, one of only sixteen cases seeking divorce on grounds of both adultery and cruelty in that decade, the result sent a clear signal to abusive husbands and a message of hope to abused wives everywhere.” Stoney was not a man to accept defeat, and the divorce proved to be only the beginning of the end. The redoubtable Mary was to suffer abduction, further violence and humiliation.

As the title suggests, Mary ultimately triumphs, although not without enduring unimaginable suffering. I was lost in admiration at her endurance and tenacity in the face of such torture. Her willingness to defy convention and publicly denounce her husband’s abuse resulted in three court rulings that influenced women’s rights campaigns in the nineteenth century. Progress was slow, with protection against violent husbands instituted in 1878 and financial autonomy for wives in 1882, nearly 100 years after Mary’s one-woman struggle.

It is surprising that Mary Bowes is little known outside the annals of marriage law. The man who tormented her has been immortalised as Thackeray’s Barry Lyndon, and his lack of financial acumen has given us the term “stoney broke”. Wendy Moore is to be applauded, therefore, for giving this heroic woman the recognition she deserves. The story is absolutely gripping and I found myself exhausted and slightly stunned when reaching its conclusion. The historical context is well-balanced and impeccably researched: everything is contextualised without losing any of the cracking pace. Stories don’t get much more sensational than this, but Mary’s suffering is handled with great sensitivity. Wendy Moore is undoubtedly one of the very best writers of narrative non-fiction. The harrowing subject matter means that Wedlock is not an easy read, but it’s the story of remarkable woman, brilliantly told.

Wedlock is available in both paperback and Kindle editions.