Farmer tells us what has happened to our characters since we last saw them, and does so quickly. Charlotte has died “in child-bed,” Lady Catherine has advised Mr. Collins to let her family raise the child, and, in returning to Hertfordshire “for assistance and sympathy,” Mr. Collins finds Mary “his true partner in life” (2-4). Kitty, meanwhile, has becomes “less frivolous, less insipid, and more rational,” Jane is pregnant with her fifth—and increasingly dull and tired, and Darcy takes responsibility for their lack of fecundity (6-7). Georgiana is still single at 25, content to love Elizabeth, Darcy, and her cat, Blanche.

The text is as much about Georgiana as it is about any other character. We get background details of Georgiana’s childhood and George Fitzwilliam’s encouragement of his motherless young cousin. He has been awarded joint guardianship because his aunt and uncle recognized “his temperament and worth” (15). The explanation made me wonder why I have never before questioned why he, and not his parents or his elder brother, became the joint guardian. The narrator explains the effect of the Wickham betrayal on Georgiana’s character (though I had trouble accepting that Darcy says so little to her that she actually thinks “everyone in the world [knows] the depths of her frailty and imprudence” [19]). She’s also poorly understood by people who should know her well; both Colonel Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth have brief moments of sudden clarity about Georgiana’s sentiments, but we’re left rather in the dark about how that suddenly occurs after them not understanding for so long.

We also learn more about Anne and Lady Catherine. Farmer incorporates Austen’s views into her own descriptions, for instance with the development of Rosings. Sir Lewis wishes not “to dissipate his entire fortune in a fruitless attempt to insult nature completely” (30). He and Anne are close, so his death makes us pity her even more (though that pity doesn’t last long). I thought it an interesting link between him and Mr. Bennet in “the impropriety of infusing a daughter’s mind with derision and contempt for her mother” (30). Farmer even explains why we have never seen any “direct opposition” on Anne’s part to Lady Catherine; even Mrs. Jenkinson “could not discern the studied resentment” Anne feels (32, 31). Nonetheless, she is quietly brooding, and she takes revenge on her mother, first by deliberating not attracting a husband by being so inexplicably silent, and second, in a way I wish not to spoil for you. If we didn’t so pity Anne, Lady Catherine’s determined pursuit of Colonel Fitzwilliam for her husband—after it seems all other options have eluded them—would be hilarious. As it is, his rejection of her wishes echoes Lizzy’s rejection of them when Lady Catherine visited Longbourne in P & P.
Farmer also tells us more about Colonel Fitzwilliam’s family. With a somewhat detailed description of the marital pursuits and path of Lord Hallendale, Lady Anne and Lady Catherine’s brother, Farmer gives him a wife who might well be a model for Elizabeth—smart, pretty, but not of his “birth and station”—and he doesn’t care (59). This woman, of course, is Colonel Fitzwilliam’s stepmother, and he is so “genuinely fond” of her that he finds “occasion to return” home often (60). Sure enough, the text soon tells us that Elizabeth likes her and longs “to be held in such esteem at Pemberley” (61). The twist comes when Elizabeth asks some questions of the woman she admires and learns that her father was Jewish! An unusual discussion for a JA book, and though I was only mildly disturbed that one reason Elizabeth “suspect[s] Lady Hallendale of being an Hebrew” is because of Sarah’s “diminutive size,” the incorporation of Jews becomes worse than just awkward in volume two, when “enquiry into the Jerusalem Room . . . reveal[s] that the Viscount had been in debt to the Jewish money-lenders for no less than one hundred thousand pounds” (vol 1, 61; vol 2, 143). I failed to see the purpose of this noxious plot point. At least the murderers aren’t Jewish, but the whole idea that someone dies because he owes Jews money reeks of Shylock stereotypes and NOT of anything Austen ever wrote.

As many books have done lately, Farmer incorporates other Austen novel characters into this story of Elizabeth and Darcy, and also other Austen novel situations. In a Fanny-esque way, Georgiana’s “grateful affection for her cousin was grown into love, as Georgiana changed from a young girl into a young lady,” but her cousin sees her as just “his young, callow cousin” (16). He, meanwhile, is courting a Miss Crawford. The heavy rector Kitty marries talks a lot, and Elizabeth avoids him the way Emma does Miss Bates. The Parkers echo the Palmers. She is pretty but never shuts up; he is an intellect. Darcy has invited “Mr. Knightley of Surrey . . . to accompany him on a tour of the Pemberley collieries” (80). Emma’s sister’s husband knows the Gardiners. Elizabeth and Anne are friends as “Mr. Darcy often of a morning joined Captain Wentworth at the Corn Exchange to review the news” (87). Elizabeth has an odd early-Catherine Morland moment when she voices aloud her sense that she “would rather enjoy being set-upon by highwaymen” with Darcy “heroically” defending the ladies and one of the felons falling “desperately in love with Georgiana” (179). (This, ten years into their marriage, seems oddly immature, but we’ll talk about Elizabeth’s voice later.) When Lady Catherine needs help, Darcy consults Sidney Parker—from Sanditon! Farmer really went all out here. Anne Wentworth is in a similar position with respect to making Mr. Eliot’s character known as Elizabeth was with Wickham’s; now who will save Lady Catherine?

Though the style is elegant, many of the descriptions are a little too long for my taste, slowing down the pace of the story. Elizabeth and Darcy and Georgiana travel together—through Scotland and later through Wales on “tours of improvements” (89). Then they venture off into other nations of Europe, and Farmer gives us, in essence, a travel log. There are, as I see it, two key problems with this choice: 1) I don’t share these interests with Farmer, meticulously researched as I know they are, and 2) These are no longer our beloved characters but voice pieces for Farmer’s research.

The first problem: I just don’t really want to know the ins and outs of “medicinal salts” and “renellated roof[s]” and “castellated turrets” (99, 105). Huge parts of the story read as a travel journey from town to town, but even though the Darcys are there and Darcy keeps “noting” this or that, the descriptions really have nothing to do with Elizabeth or Darcy and are therefore less likely to stimulate pleasure from a reader who was expecting more of them. Nor do I care that the oxen are yoked differently in Burgundy from how they are in England or that the mild climate in Brieg leads to the production of saffron (vol 2, 53, 100). Georgiana and Darcy must read an inordinate amount about foreign climes to spout off information as they do throughout the trip. They travel from place and place and marvel at natural and man-made wonders and compare the people and practices to the English. I love travel, but this feels dry—well-researched, but not fun to read.

The second: Darcy, Elizabeth, and Georgiana seem to have opinions about everything, from the education of poor children to the ornamentation of landscape, but the opinions often feel self-righteous, and more likely Farmer’s than anything that either of the characters is likely to have spent much time contemplating in the past. In some places, they don’t even sound like people we know, but like little narrators. Witness this exchange:
“I have observed that the Crevolans of both sexes wore very coarse woolen clothes, always of a brown or deep red colour, with thick, red stockings, while the dress of the residents of Domo is both varied and more elegant.”
“And art adorns even the smallest of buildings, even though this is but a small place. To my mind, this is the first truly Italian scene, though we have been travelling in Italy a good while.”
Can you distinguish these voices from each other? Does either sound like our heroine or hero? The first is Elizabeth; the second, Darcy, but really they’re both Farmer, given other names to relate history Farmer wants to discuss, no doubt, for reasons of her own (vol 2, 107).

In addition to those key flaws, seemingly random phrases are en francais (and thus italicized) in the section dealing with their trip to the Continent, which I found annoyingly pretentious. If there was any logic behind which phrases were francofied, I missed it. Even a joke (I speak a little French, so I got it, but it’s hardly so basic that you would if you didn’t) is given in French—and not translated (180). Why? Austen doesn’t do that, and Farmer, in many ways, has a strong grasp on Austen’s style. When describing a heavy rector who loves food and wine, the narrator says “on at least one occasion, the sacrament was nearly denied a parishioner because the deceased had timed his dying so ill as to coincide with Parson Overstowey’s supper” (21). Similarly, the narrator’s amusing assessment of Mr. Bennet’s reaction to Georgiana is that “he was grown fond of his new daughter, and ranked her in his estimation above at least two of his own” (123). Farmer also clearly knows her Austen and gives P&P lines to characters in this text, as when Elizabeth tells the Comte that his interruption of their family evening, though unexpected, is not “necessarily unwelcome,” as she says to Wickham when he interrupts her “solitary reverie” in P&P (Farmer 33). Colonel Fitzwilliam does the same, with the same line, when Mary Crawford surprises him: “it does not follow . . . that such obtrusion is unwelcome” (155). So why the awkward intrusion of italicized foreign words so often? And why does Darcy call his wife Lizzy but she calls him “Mr. Darcy” or “Husband”?

There’s a lot I can’t quite reconcile here: I am impressed by the sheer knowledge of the writer, but I didn’t largely enjoy the experience, though there were certainly moments of pleasure.

There were so many errors in basic language that, after not very many pages, I searched for the editor’s name and then the publisher’s. I found neither. Saunders may be able to craft a modern story based on Austen’s classic, but she has not successfully edited her own work and desperately needs an editor more skilled with the English language than anyone who looked at this text before she published it. Some instances of the errors, so you understand the range:

Apostrophe usage: “Photo’s of the Elliot family” (6), “Look after the ‘little Miss Elliot’s'” (11), Mary didn’t favor “any of the Elliot’s” (35), “Old servant’s quarters” but it’s no specific servant (32). I stopped with the corrections because this wasn’t productive, just frustrating; usually, when I correct a text, I get paid or at least get the satisfaction of knowing the final version will be better for all my work. That this was the final version, and that no one bothered to fix these elementary-level mistakes, offended me.

Assorted errors: Rick says he “could care less about their disgusting money”—1) money is not disgusting, and 2) that means he does care (5); “without a substantial reason other then” (15, my emphasis); no one could ever “compliment” Walter’s looks (16); “by taking the back roads, it increased” (35); “all of the sudden” (36, my emphasis); “that made Anne suspect the couple had previously heard her name before” (104, my emphasis); Lady Russell (Carol) says to Anne: “I’ve tried to council you” (154).

In addition to the errors, there is a heavy-handedness to the writing that reduces the pleasure we might otherwise take from Saunders’ inventions. When Anne first meets the hero, she has tripped, and is rescued, but “she took one look into his concerned face and knew he had captured her heart” (3). Then the narrator tells us “their friendship went way back” right after saying they attended the same university (15). There is so much unnecessary repetition, as though Saunders thought of several ways to say something and didn’t edit any out! Our Anne would not use a cliché when sensitivity is in order, but here, Anne’s response to Ben’s tears is that “time heals all wounds” (107). Will’s eyes “riveted” Anne’s “attention as if being pulled by a tractor beam” (159-60). Good attempt at using figurative language, but this simile just feels awkward. Overall, in fact, this novel reads like it’s the novelist’s first-time, with awkward descriptions (ex: “It was a little hole in the wall, but the coffee was exceptional . . . Soft piano tunes played in the background, lending a relaxing aura” 13), unclear statements (ex: what exactly are “European features”? 16) and, sometimes, too much information (ex: way too much set-up for the letter—tells us what’s at stake; just let us read it and figure out its significance on our own!).

There are also several actions and comments that defy logic. In 2001, why would the Lady Russell (here, Carol) character shudder at the thought of Anne having to “work outside the home” (4)? Why does Rick make Anne choose between college and him? And why is finishing college the caveat Sir Walter places on his daughter’s relationship with an older man? Seems like good parenting to me! Later, why does Anne fall in the hospital? (not an exact parallel to when Anne falls and Frederick helps her in the original, but I think I see the goal here, which helped me forgive the awkwardness in its execution) How do the coffees not get lost if she falls on her “bottom” while holding them? (131) Other plot oddities: The gaudy place of escape (Bath) is California . . . which is not at all logical. Why would people retrench in someplace so expensive? Near the resolution, Will plants “a big juicy kiss on Anne’s” CHEEK (243). That’s how he offends her? A little tame, even for Austen’s era. Elizabeth is upset when Anne’s engagement is announced because she “thought she’d be the first to get married,” but Mary has long been married (245).

Saunders also manages to attempt an appropriation of Austen’s text for her own religious purposes—but with no warning of her real purpose, which might have made it more palatable. At first, it seems like maybe just more overt prayer here than in Austen; when Louisa hits her head, all Anne “could do was stand there helplessly, and pray to her Heavenly Father for a miracle” (123). But a serious religious agenda presents itself shortly thereafter, and again, it’s done with such a heavy hand that it becomes annoying at best and offensive at worst. At one point, rather than cry, which Anne thinks is useless, she decides “the better option would be to find solace in her Heavenly Father” (128). Austen’s characters were deeply religious, but Austen, though she mentions church, never uses the specificity Saunders does, when, for instance, she has Carol light the unity candle at Anne’s wedding (249). If Saunders’ goal was to reflect Austen’s style, her forcing of her own religious expressions down the readers’ throats is yet another piece of evidence of her failure.

Now, if for some reason, you can wade through all its flaws, the story does have a few nice details: Wentworth puts Anne on a little boat, rather than a carriage;
Charles Hayter (here, Chuck) actually proposes and is accepted, so the question of which sister is cleared up more quickly; when Anne first sees Mr. Elliot, she hides behind her menu and tries to cool off her burning cheeks with her cold hands; the singers Anne invites Frederick to hear become a Fourth of July fireworks show here, which works well; and at least I learned who Corinne Bailey Rae is (141). Saunders has potential as a story-teller; I’m hopeful for her and for us that the next book showcases it more effectively.

But when the adapter calls the panels “mouthwatering,” the problems begin. This odd synesthetic choice of words FOR A WRITER aside, Butler makes several at best odd, and at worst inaccurate, misleading, or distracting, choices in this adaptation, among her good ones.

The faults first: The introduction oddly likens Mr. Knightley to Ferris Bueller, who “has to borrow transportation (but has oodles of charisma to make up for it).” Mr. Knightley? Don’t misunderstand me; unless I’ve just revisted Darcy, Mr. Knightley is my favorite Austen hero, but I wouldn’t call him charismatic, any more than I would Edward Ferrars or Edmund Bertram. (Also no period at end of last sentence: hello, editors?)

Once the actual story begins, Butler has Mr. Woodhouse call Mr. Knightley just “Knightley,” which significantly lessens the yuck factor when Mrs. Elton does it later. Even the narrator is inconsistent with what she calls the hero. In one instance, the left side of the page has “Knightley left, still vexed,” while the right side has “Mr. Knightley was so much displeased by his quarrel.” But then, worst of all, Emma calls him that! Shocking and wrong! She says, when speaking to Harriet of Robert Martin, “No, he has not the air of Knightley” (sounds more like Caroline Bingley than like Emma).

This is not the only inaccuracy with respect to character revelation through language and behavior. Mrs. Goddard, for instance, tells Emma that “it would be a kindness to befriend” Harriet Smith, though we know it would be completely out of line for the mistress of the boarding school to advise the mistress of Hartfield! Later, Butler has Mr. Knightley put down Frank’s penmanship publicly, which seems unlike Austen’s Mr. Knightley (and mine). I understand the time restraints in adapting a lengthy work to this form, but Mrs. Weston would not say so bluntly “I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax.” When changes violate character, they cease to be acceptable.

There are also some sloppy mistakes that detract from the beauty of the text. Mr. Woodhouse, for instance, says (not thinks, which would be clearly indicated by squiggly bubbles) to Emma “I cannot wish to prevent Emma from going.” Mrs. Weston asks Emma if she is attending “the Coles dinner party,” no apostrophe. On the very next page, it’s done correctly. Another glitch: “When Mrs. Coles spoke of it”—typos are acceptable perhaps in my little reviews, but in this beautiful book? Isabella is said at one point to have connected herself unexceptionally. Why un? Doesn’t she mean the opposite? It’s not the only typo (thorough for through), but there’s only one moment in which the illustrations were disappointing: when the new pianoforte revelation occurs, there are two different images of Frank, but in different clothes at different ends of the table. In one, he is sandy-haired, and in the other, brunet. I studied the image (hoping one was Mr. Knightley or some other man, but no, they both appear to be Frank.)

Now, the good highlights: I liked that some of Butler’s choices made me revisit the book. Does Emma’s sister really say she’ll walk through the snow (from Randalls) to avoid leaving her children, I wondered? (I knew it happens in the Jonny Lee Miller/Romola Garai adaptation, but in the book the answer is: yes, but only if their carriage fails them on the way home.) I liked that the coachman had a blanket—I wondered how they managed the cold! I had forgotten that Jane’s mom was Miss Bates’ sister, which seems strange somehow. Does Emma go to the Coles’ because her father and Mrs. Weston decide she should? (answer: Mrs. Weston encourages it, and Mr. Woodhouse allows himself to be persuaded, though he still wants Emma to leave early.) Does Mr. Knightley issue the Donwell Abbey invitation to Mrs. Elton himself, as Butler has it? (answer: yes, he does, though the text suggests he is not wholly serious in his suggestion.) Emma and Mr. Elton BOTH say “at present” during the drawing scene; does that happen in the book? (answer: yes. Emma says it first; when Mr. Elton repeats it, he does so with emphasis suggesting he and Emma will soon be husband and wife.) It felt like an abrupt shift from Harriet’s mourning Elton to “Frank Churchill did not come to Randalls,” but then I wondered if that was the volume break, in which case it makes more sense (answer: it isn’t, though it’s oddly close to one).

Overall, it’s a lovely addition to my Jane Austen collection, but the Jane Austen world cries out for an editor (maybe I should start freelancing), and her characters, for accurate representations in all their depictions.

The story picks up two years later when Elizabeth decides to travel to America to stay with the Gardiners; by coincidence, Darcy is on the same ship—which he owns—to meet Georgiana (who has traveled there with Mrs. Annesley, who then gets too ill to accompany the young lady back home). Though there are a few weak spots (why would a “rational argument” persuade Mrs. Bennet to let Elizabeth go? [12] and why would Mrs. Annesley try to persuade Darcy to let Georgiana accompany her to America in the first place? [23]—though, to be fair, the second argument—get her away from Wickham and humiliation—sounds more probable), ultimately the joy of the adventure works to distract us from any small inconsistencies of plot.

On the ship, we begin to enjoy the same Austen lines and characters we know and love, but in very different contexts, several of which are really quite clever. The captain, for instance, says Bingley’s line about Darcy being fastidious, and the new context for Darcy’s barb about no women handsome enough to tempt him is that he’s reassuring the captain there will be no impropriety initiated by him with the unescorted ladies (31). When the narrator describes Elizabeth as being torn between fearing and desiring Darcy’s return to the room, it is after their first kiss (187). In the ship part of the story, we have makeshift Bingley (captain) and Miss Bingley (Eleanor Brewster), so I was actually a little surprised when the real ones showed up later. Similarly, since Elizabeth gets sick in this version, and Darcy nurses her back to health, we don’t necessarily expect Jane to get sick later, but she does. The “first proposal” is so different in nature, but the basic facts are the same—he assumes it is more than she could hope for, and she takes offense at first, but the result is, as Elizabeth would say, “quite the opposite” (86-87). Overall, the effect is that we are not surprised by our destination but often surprised and delighted by how Louise gets us there.

That said, Louise does use some distinctly non-Austen strategies as she flips our expectations on their pretty little heads. Darcy’s valet teases him from the very beginning; if that were true, Elizabeth’s later behavior wouldn’t be so shocking (and Austen wouldn’t have had her hold her tongue because he had not yet learned to laugh at himself and it was rather too early to begin) (25-26). There are several interesting and potentially off-putting discussions of Elizabeth praying . .  . Austen never does that, though we might assume that for Austen, as the daughter and sister of clergymen, prayer was a regular part of her life (52). Elizabeth calls her aunt “Aunt Madlyn” not “Aunt Gardiner” (206). When Caroline suggests Jane only wants Bingley’s money, Darcy is all reason (“I have not had the opportunity to see them together enough to make that sort of judgment,” he says 273). Since Elizabeth hasn’t yet arrived home, it’s Darcy who sees through the Bingley sisters’ “care” for Jane (275). When Wickham finally appears, the ramifications are different from what we expect. And the Pemberley scene is so much fun to read—again, the basic outline is the same, but it’s so different! (Yay, Georgiana!)
This is a love story, of course, but it appeals to other passions as well; ultimately, books bring our hero and heroine together—first on the carriage where they first meet, then during their daily walks on deck, then in Netherfield Library. Darcy’s Voyage—and Elizabeth’s, too—is very clever, and a joy to watch progress.

If nothing else, after reading Louise’s descriptions of steerage, you will never again take for granted the gift of fresh air!

Barron’s Jane is very much a personal one. She narrates the story (I’m not entirely certain she knew her phrases would be “immortal,” and I was definitely put out by Jane’s supposed phrase “frivolity of writing,” in reference to her career) (4, 34) and sounds, for the most part, much as I imagine she would. When Jane tries to read a particular novel, she dislikes it because it lacks “anything of nature or probability” (20). When Jane describes Mr. Lushington, she says that he is “ambitious and insincere—your short men often are” but that he “speaks so well of Milton” she can’t help but be a little in love with him (50). With the full support and aid of her brother Edward, Jane unpacks and analyzes the details around her; in this story, a murder in Kent. Her openness and frank statements are just what we expect from the creator of Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse.

Both heroines figure prominently in this murder mystery, largely because, at this point, Austen had already written Pride and Prejudice, and was working on Emma. Mr. Bennet’s line about living to “make sport of our neighbours” is in Jane’s mouth here as she describes what qualities she dislikes in Mr. Moore, a clergyman who “harp[s] upon the grim vicissitudes of human existence” (18). The thoughts of Fanny, Jane’s niece, are said to be “more tolerably engaged” than they would be were she actually listening to the Moores’ marital squabble, as Darcy’s are when he is contemplating Elizabeth’s fine eyes (19). In some instances, the allusion helps shape our thinking; in the previous example, for instance, we wonder if the subject of Fanny’s reverie will turn out as well as Darcy’s did. Caroline Bingley’s comments get a fairer voice when Jane comments that Fanny’s petticoats must be six inches deep in mud, and  Jane’s words to Fanny about John Plumptre sound like Elizabeth’s to Jane about Bingley, which makes us wonder whether we should take warning from the fact that Elizabeth, at least in the short-term, is wrong (21, 89). Fanny reacts to one arrest by crying, a là Lizzy Bennet, “every feeling revolts” (182)!

Emma figures less prominently (though there is some concern with the lot of governesses, which sounds like a set up for Jane Fairfax and her plight, and though an annoying character claims he’s going for a hair-cut, like Frank Churchill, when he’s really doing something else) until the very end, when Jane makes clear that, while Fanny is also “twenty years of age and the mistress of her father’s establishment,” Emma has a much easier time of things—being “happy and vain, secure and carefree, bossy and endearing—“ while Fanny reminds Jane more of Jane’s own self “in the aftermath of . . . Tom Lefroy’s abandonment” (303-04).

Fanny’s happiness, indeed, is not the central concern of this work, and, in fact, though I don’t consider myself a fan of the mystery novel, this one was hard to stop reading. There are so many suspicious characters, even before any murder occurs—Julian Thane, dancing scandalously close to Fanny (8), whoever sent the mysterious pouch with dark brown beans that arrives for the bride and leaves her disturbed (15), Jupiter Finch-Hatton, who wants to play billiards right after he might have shot a man (37), Mr. Moore, a minister who seems to know a lot of details about the honeymoon plans of the woman he once loved (45), even the bride’s mother, whom we know to watch because Jane is (12).

Jane’s comments, in addition to being insightful, are delightfully funny. Of herself, she observes, “It is unbecoming in a spinster to dwell upon the ominous at a wedding feast” (6). Of Mr. Lushington (the names are positively Dickensian), she observes, “he appeared to hesitate, tho’ perhaps he was merely digesting his sausage” (51). To us, she perhaps implicitly advises, “I had secured my bona fides, from a simple complex of confidence and presumption” (94). We might do the same.

This text uses several expressions with which I had not been familiar. “Jackanapes” is a dis (10). Two characters are described as “smelling of April and May for years together,” which I think indicates some sort of love interest (178). (It appears Georgette Heyer fans have a distinct advantage here because she regularly uses these Regency expressions.) And the word “Corinthian” is used so frequently I had to think about it (and double-check yahoo answers to get “a most desirable man, top-of-the-trees”).

In short, this was a fun read; it really feels like our Jane, or like our Jane mixed with Angela Lansbury’s Jessica Fletcher.

Cassandra’s famous line about Jane as a sister begins the story on a rather more sentimental note than we see for several chapters thereafter. After yet another twist of the opening line of P & P (must be so hard to resist trying one as a writer of a JA-based fiction, and it’s such fun as a reader to see some new ideas), we meet a college lecturer who sometimes reads for pleasure instead of grading essays and who occasionally has to fend off admiring male students. When she allows herself to think about her enthusiasm for all things Austen and realizes she is “in love with a fictional world,” I felt that the connections had hit just a little too close to home (9). Soon, however, the story shifts to more pleasant grounds—literally—as our heroine and the various other important characters converge for the weekend at the Jane Austen Conference in Hampshire. Once we realize what the secret of Katherine’s favorite living writer really is, we know what needs to happen, and the fun is watching how that develops.

We all enter these fictional worlds with a certain willingness to suspend disbelief, but this text went too far more times than was comfortable for this reader. When Katherine autographs a copy of her book for a student, his comment—“You don’t want to add a kiss?”—seemed unrealistic to me.  No one but the seriously socially impaired would say that. Similarly, I had trouble believing that a professor of English would comment to her new friend Robyn, who has just said she travelled from North Yorkshire, “A bit farther than me, then” when, of course, she meant to say “than I [have travelled]” (50). Later, she comments to Warwick that she’s “afraid us ladies can be a bit scary when we start talking about our heroes” (126). US ladies? Just what expectations are there for lecturers at St. Bridget’s College? For a good person, Katherine demonstrates some behaviors that seem inconsistent to me. Her treatment of Mrs. Soames, for instance, who, granted, is terribly unpleasant, borders on mean when she conspires to exclude the woman from her trivia group (136). She also seems to think all her students apathetic about great literature, which struck me as disturbing: not all of my students react to the texts I share with them as I would wish, but a good majority do . . . how could that be so different in a collegiate environment if the instructor is doing her job properly? (114) Katherine is also unbelievably rude when she first meets Warwick, who has accidentally rolled a suitcase over her toe—despite his “tall, dark, and handsome look” and the fact that he was helping an elderly lady (51). She judges too quickly—which I understood was supposed to parallel Elizabeth Bennet’s judgment—but it just felt snotty (51).

Warwick and Robyn’s behaviors gave me some pause as well, particularly when they take risks that seem unnecessary rather than exciting. Warwick may wish to use his knowledge of Katherine’s heart to win her over initially, but even once it’s clear she likes him, he does not tell her the truth, which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me given that he is planning to reveal the truth soon to her. This foolishness becomes even more pronounced when someone who knows his secret announces her impending visit, but still, Warwick—an otherwise intelligent and amiable man—does not act wisely, and though I understand the mistake has to happen for the story to resolve as it does, it still didn’t seem like a believable choice to me. When Robyn is finally free of her primary burden, she is faced with an obstacle I had trouble accepting as realistic: is she ready for a new relationship? The answer seemed obvious to me (of course she is!), but not to her. And most glaring, Robyn, of all people, should know better than to date to marry Mr. Collins! (20)

My frustrations, however, could only exist in such form, because I came to care for these characters, and Connelly does that well. She has her finger on the pulse of a good subsection of Janeite enthusiasm, even turning up the phrase “the Jane Austen effect,” to describe the rosy feeling everyone seems to have when Jane Austen is around (99). She makes a strong argument in favor of literature and film that brings pleasure—without snobbery by purists who refuse to try other forms of their favorites; in fact, Katherine was first prompted to read Austen after watching the Olivier/Garson film, much as I was by the Paltrow/Northam Emma (101). Connelly really pushes the concept hard, with Robyn naming her collection of chickens after various characters (ex: “the pale gold was Miss Bingley because she had an air about her, and . . . looked down her beak at everyone else” 18) and Katherine naming her cats Darcy and Wentworth.

Trying to ‘figure out” who’s who is an interesting game here. Sometimes it feels like the two leading ladies could be Elizabeth and Jane, but other times, the male and female figures seem to reverse roles; when Dan’s “tousled head” emerges from the pool, for instance, “his bright eyes [are] sparkling from the exercise” (105). The parallel love stories could also be like Elinor and Marianne or Emma and Harriet, but I’m not sure Connelly ever completely resolves this for us.

She does give us the answer to the ‘tough” question at the trivia game, but I was bothered that only one person—including a college lecturer in Jane Austen—at a Jane Austen conference knew what Mr. Collins reads to the girls, when I think most people reading this review right now would have no problem identifying Fordyce’s sermons in some form or other (141).

We do find fulfillment in sufficient places, however—whether it’s the beautiful description of the human need for nature (“Pleasures like this didn’t change with the centuries. People still longed to feel the earth beneath their feet and the sun on their backs” 196) or the revelation that at least one Janeite (Carla) besides me collects Pride and Prejudice in foreign languages, even ones she cannot read (117). That alone was worth A Weekend with Mr. Darcy.

In an intriguing melding of the various worlds Austen crafted, a modern Darcy reflects in the foreword about introducing newly scarred Georgiana to a professor still nursing scars of his own. Professor Rick Wentworth, referred to by The Sun as the “Sex-in-the-Sea Doc” in honor of his new book, travels from Australia to England for a publicity tour and must face some old ghosts that have hindered the development of his love life for the better part of the last ten years (3). Dr. Anna Elliot, lecturer in Russian Studies at Bath & Western University, is also trying to recover from the love affair of a decade ago, and does her best with dear friends Jenny and Tom, and a Russian novel by her bedside.

Following the plot of Persuasion, this version allows us into the heads and hearts of both heroine and hero, fleshes out the would-be romance between Anna and her now brother-in-law Charles, makes clever links between our characters’ lives and the plots of various Russian novels (Anna Karenina, The Idiot), and, though I hardly would have thought it possible, makes Sir Walter and his eldest daughter (here, Lisa) even more naïve, vain, and superficial than before. Anna is the only one not to fall under her evil cousin’s spell, and all details point to his actually genuinely being emotionally moved by her.

The greatest moments in Persuade Me derive, of course, from Austen’s genius, but Archer plays delightfully with several of them. Lou is incredibly forward in both texts, but in the modern world, what was once mildly inappropriate leaning on Wentworth’s arm becomes an open invitation for sex (sample: “The only nuts I’m interested in are yours, Rick Wentworth” 109). Anne’s being picked up by the passing carriage of Wentworth’s sister and her husband now becomes Rick seeing Anna stumble and deliberately calling them on his cell phone to come by and pick up Anna—an even more considerate gesture. We’re all familiar with Wentworth’s poignant line to Anne: ”you pierce my soul”; here, before the letter, Anne is described as giving Wentworth a “conscious look that pierced his soul” (302). In this important reunion, each of them wears the outfit the other so appreciated at the previous encounter; in fact, the parallel emotions and behaviors of the two characters in this rendition of Persuasion serve to reinforce the equality of the partners, and the “rightness” of the match. The narrator even sets us straight on one concern modern people might have above love stories in which the love is so completely consuming with a beautiful line of explanation: “Which wasn’t to say that she depended on another person to make life worth living; it was rather that, for her, a soul mate gave everything a clearer, brighter purpose” (264).

I also learned a few things. Cool Water is a perfume (300). “Rictus” describes a gaping grin (266). “Bloody” can be used in hyphenate form to modify “minded” (115). Leonard Cohen songs apparently offer the same brooding quality as do Romantic poems (138). Feet can be scintillatingly kissable (72). Yet another Austen heroine wears lavender? (72) (Does Anne wear it in Persuasion? And Elizabeth in P & P? I must be due for some revists.) “Enrol” may be spelled with a single “l” (73).

Perhaps you already knew all these things. Let me enlighten you, then, that no good literature instructor marks a stack of essays quite as rapidly as Anna Elliot, but as that detail was perhaps the only flaw I found with this delightful story, it’s a strong recommendation to try it yourself.

Though the basic facts of Pride and Prejudice and the great lines of dialogue are unchanged, the chronology of the facts and the context of the lines are vastly different in this highly-charged tale by Susan Adriani. Wickham sees from the start (when the two men have their encounter in Meryton) that Darcy likes Elizabeth. His attentions to her, which here are downright vicious and vulgar, are motivated by his desire to hurt Darcy. (His end is different from the original, and I must say, quite satisfying given his choices in this text.)

The development of the relationship between the primary lovers differs here, too. Elizabeth asks Darcy to accompany her on an errand in Meryton when she sees his strong reaction to Wickham so she can inquire further as to its cause. He tells her right away about Wickham’s character but not Georgiana’s role in it; that revelation comes later, by Georgiana’s own choosing. Elizabeth’s keeping her distance from Darcy happens not because of wounded pride but because Mrs. Bennet and the “very silly sisters” keep teasing her about his attention to her.

Mrs. Bennet is up to her usual antics, but her husband doesn’t always sound quite like himself, as, for instance, when he learns he has a “situation” at hand because of some liberties his favorite daughter has allowed her prominent suitor. Though we lose the great line of Mr. Bennet to Elizabeth about becoming a stranger to one of her parents (you know the rest), it is replaced with a delightful—and more importantly, powerful!—one that has the effect of shutting up Mrs. Bennet on the subject of Elizabeth’s matrimony, at least for a brief while (92).

Other small pleasures here: Mr. Hurst is occasionally insightful, and, even drunk, helpful, in resolving potential delays on Bingley’s part to secure Jane (60). Georgiana is as clever as we would wish and, as Elizabeth’s sister-in-law, has a funny line when she learns that Jane is to marry Bingley (commenting on an irony I had never considered in quite this way): “do you not find it diverting that after all this time Caroline Bingley will finally be able to call herself my sister?” (153) Adriani also includes some intriguing “back stories” including the one of how Darcy came to adore his little sister and how Lady Catherine became such a—well, what she is.

This retelling is highly satisfying, not only for its exploration of the passion between Darcy and Elizabeth, but also because our favorite characters are so honest and direct here—whether it’s Bingley disciplining Darcy for risking both their future happiness for the sake of principles that don’t really matter or Elizabeth confronting Darcy right away when she sees or hears something potentially offensive. The only deceit comes from Mr. Collins (who here is actually evil rather than just repulsive and empty-headed). The mistaken impressions that so plague the four principals in the original are non-existent here; they have other problems, which I won’t ruin for you by sharing any more than I already have; just know there are many happy endings on the journey to the big happy ending.

1)      Place it on the table where all the “reading group” books go, preferably with a cover that looks girly but not lame.

2)      List Jane Austen on the front or back cover as having anything whatsoever to do with the book.

The two books I review here had both advantages, and turned out to be satisfying, educational reads.

The Wonder Spot’s back cover proclaims: “What Austen did for marriage, Melissa Bank does for serial monogamy.” After reading the book, I’m still not quite sure what that means. Marriage—to the right person—seems the desired happy ending in Austen, so I suppose being with one person—at least for a while before moving on to the next—is what is supposed to be sought here. I would not have phrased it that way; however, I enjoyed the story because Banks cleverly takes the reader on a journey through a young girl/woman’s life by telling what are, in essence, eight short stories that deal with pivotal moments in that life. There is little of the “transitioning” we’ve come to expect between chapters, but Banks gives us enough information about the central character, Sophie Applebaum, that we can piece together what happens “between” the stories. Sophie, like an Austen heroine, is smart; like an Austen heroine, she wants to do the right thing and to find the right man—and she, like most Austen heroines and most contemporary Jewish single girls (like Sophie) finds herself doing those things, particularly the latter, under the watchful eyes of the people who love her and “want what’s best” for her. The result is not necessarily Austenian, but certainly entertaining.

A similar conclusion results from time spent with Lisa See’s Snow Flower and the Secret Fan. Its back cover, too, proclaims the tale’s sisterhood with Austen’s corpus. It is “an achingly beautiful, understated and absorbing story of love” and “evokes the work of Jane Austen.” Again, perhaps I need a more advanced degree to prove that (or even understand it), but what matters most to me is that I like reading it and I learn something, and so, in that sense at least, the comparison makes sense. Marriage to the right man—defined not based on love but on social standing, prominence in the community, wealth—is the key goal of families with daughters in this novel, set in nineteenth-century China, and See takes the reader on a journey through the lives of two central women, Lily and Snow Flower, as they weather their own lives. The story includes gruesome details of footbinding and painful reminders of what the lot of women was, not so long ago. Language, and writing, specifically, become key methods of female expression and communication in this story, which, no doubt, Austen, whose letters—largely to female companions—give us insight into her life, would have appreciated. The text also shows us what life is like—in several very different marriages—after the wedding takes place, and how women cope with their inescapable destinies.

I’m well aware that publishers may think me a “sucker” for buying books because they have Austen’s name somewhere in a review.

I’m also aware that, regardless of my being an easy target for book marketers, I have benefited from these choices.

Our heroine has four serious problems at the beginning of this work: 1) she lost her mother (to whom she read Persuasion and Emma), 2) her boyfriend has recently broken up with her, 3) she got fired for reading when she was supposed to be working, and 4) she is now faced with the “stark reality [that] there would never be any more Jane Austen novels,” a misery familiar to any reader who has finished the six for the first time (2).

The boyfriend, it becomes almost immediately clear to the reader, is not the right match for our heroine. He, after all, spends time in the bookstores, but only in the magazine aisle, and has no understanding of her real character. She describes herself at one point as having “found [her] perky face,” but Martin is perpetually oblivious that she has more than he sees on the surface (5). Alas, our heroine’s spunk is self-contained, at least at the start of her story. She is also clueless about her own behavior, driving by her ex’s house, accosting him and the new girlfriend in the street, and really, deserving his final admonition to her: “You’re a lost dog. Go home” (9).

The trip to Jane Austen’s England is a metaphorical trip home, but on this journey, Lily discovers more about her family, herself, and her choices than she could have imagined when she first makes the choice to go, largely because she needs an escape and doesn’t know how else to effect one.  Her self-confidence shattered, she thinks of herself as a “secondary character,” someone she just hopes the actor playing Mr. Rushworth would take a fancy to (22). As Austen aficionados, we now know how bad it is.

There are some troubles with plot details being too obvious—we know, for instance, she’s going to lose possession of her precious cross (a nice twist on the cross Fanny receives, and on the ones Jane and Cassandra received) because Lily comments that “the necklace assumed the full burden of [her] memories as well as the connection with [her] mother; [she] could not let [her]self lose it” (25-26). There are also plot points that seem unnecessarily confusing—why is Lily rude to Gary when she first meets him? (35) Why doesn’t she talk to the potential Heathcliff when they’re alone in a church together? (54) Later, when Lily should get distracted by the guy, she doesn’t; instead she’s focused, as no woman—let alone this woman!—really obsessed with a new man would be, on her latest project (130). Worse than obvious or illogical, there’s even an inappropriate mention of Anne Frank’s attic that did not resonate well with me.

The text, however, redeems itself in two classic Austen ways: through language and through characterization. The opening line of chapter four, for instance—“On the first page of my new life, I met my first Janeite”—is direct and simple and perfect (29). The irresponsible woman (whom, at first, we’re tempted to see as the Mary Crawford character) calls her father “The Wallet.” Austen becomes Lily’s “imaginary friend” particularly when Lily arrives in Austen’s “homeland” (34). The Austen character here plays great games when she’s bored (working on “a List of Silly Girls,” for instance) and is really, for some, like a religious figure (149, 60, 115). We get a gay best friend, a conflicted lover who isn’t what he first appears to be, a very wealthy family with a jerky heir, a sham marriage, Regency underwear, literary references all over the place, and, of course, vampires (yuck).

And though we don’t have quite a Jane Austen ending, Jones teaches her heroine “to love herself [so] she’ll find happiness for a lifetime,” which is pretty good, too.