Hello and welcome to a new blog series which I’m calling “Clutching My Pearls.”
   I have thoughts. And a lot of those thoughts have to do with disagreeing with the proposition that Jane Austen was a fierce social and political critic of the times she lived in.
   Unquestionably, her world was much poorer and crueler than our own.  Austen was 6 years old when the last man was hung, drawn and quartered for treason. She was 13 when the last woman was burned at the stake (for counterfeiting money, not for witchcraft.) The year before she died, a massive famine afflicted Europe and England, and there were widespread riots for bread.
   It was also an extraordinarily eventful time in history. Austen stands at the crossroads between the rowdy Georgian age and the strait-laced Victorians, at a time of important innovations in agriculture and manufacturing. During her life, Britain was convulsed with political and social unrest, not unlike our own time. England was at war for almost the entire course of her life. The British Navy sailed to the four corners of the earth, and slave ships transported slaves to British colonies in the West Indies.
   Austen was a child of the Enlightenment, a flowering of thought whose importance to human progress cannot be understated. The long 18th century also saw the dawn of the Romantic period, the time of Byron and Beethoven and Sir Walter Scott.
   And yet, in the midst of all this upheaval, change, cruelty, racism and poverty, Austen's genteel characters talk pleasantly and drink tea and go for walks in the shrubbery. Austen doesn’t write about battles or social unrest (with one notable exception). She seldom alludes to public events, and then only in passing. She focusses on people’s private conduct, their wishes, their mistakes, their follies. In her wry examination of human nature, fans and critics have found plenty to enjoy, re-read, think about, and write about.
   So, is there anything more to her books? Is there yet another layer beyond the personal, the individual relations of her characters? Did she intend anything more?
   Many have claimed to find a great deal. In this series, I will be arguing that readers are finding radical messages in Austen because they want--in fact they need--to find them there. The modern academics who despise England’s colonial past and despise “Whiteness” can’t, in good conscience, enjoy the works of a white woman who belonged to a privileged social class and used sugar produced by slaves. The only way they can continue to enjoy Austen is to believe that she also despised and condemned her own culture, that she seethed with resentment against the patriarchy.
   I am not speaking of taking Austen and creating something new--writing a variation of her novels set in modern times, or with a same sex-couple, or what have you. That's perfectly legitimate artistic expression. I'm talking about wanting to see things in Austen that are not there, and not wanting to see the things that are there.
   If you don’t view Western civilization as entirely a force for evil and if you don’t condemn everything that has happened on this globe since Columbus got lost on his way to China, you might not even know who or what I’m referring to. Those not familiar with this culture war might think I am criticizing a very small group of people whose nihilistic views are inconsequential. This is not the case, and I’ll have more to say about that later. In public discourse today, people are being bullied into making binary choices. When someone defends the advances of Western Civilization, they are attacked for being indifferent about human suffering, colonialism, and the slave trade.  I'll be arguing for nuance.
  The ideas I'll be presenting are mine, but I don't claim that they are all original. Much has been written about Austen.

  I'm so excited about this book cover for the novella that I can't wait any longer. Here it is, by Tim Barber of Dissect Designs. There's Shelley at the Baths of Caracalla. The novella, which is excerpted and expanded from my latest novel, "A Different Kind of Woman," will come out on October 5th in e-book on Kindle and other platforms. I'm offering ARC's (Advanced Reader Copies) through BookSprout, so just follow this link and help yourself, or contact me for technical assistance.
   For both this book and ADKW, I did a deep dive into Shelley's life and times and I'm still fascinated by him. He was brilliant, but also at times incapable of seeing (or feeling) anyone else's point of view. Also, his friends say he had a vivid imagination, or was there more to it? I am sure I'm going to be researching and writing more about that strange incident in North Wales in 1813. 
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   Here's a brief blurb about the novella:

Percy Bysshe Shelley’s brief and turbulent life was as passionate as his poetry. Romantic, idealistic and impulsive, Shelley had several intense love affairs. When Shelley drowned at sea in 1822, he took his secrets with him.
Did a beautiful, lovelorn lady really follow him throughout Europe, as he claimed? Did Mary Shelley ever learn about this rival for her affections?
Shelley and the Unknown Lady is a carefully researched imagining of the true-life tragedy behind the mystery.
This novella is a stand-alone story excerpted from Lona Manning’s Mansfield Trilogy.

...is today, so perhaps it's appropriate (or not inappropriate, as a Regency writer would say) to post a portion of my forthcoming novella, which mentions her birthday.
   In this excerpt, Mary Crawford (a character from Jane Austen's Mansfield Park,) is having an affair with Percy Bysshe Shelley, and decides to reveal herself to Mary Shelley. They are in Bagni di Lucca, a resort in Italy.
   My novella, Shelley and the Unknown Lady, which is excerpted from my Mansfield Trilogy, will be released on Kindle on October 5th. 

   ​The last day of August was the hottest day of the year, and also the day which saw the end of Mary’s patience. She could endure it no longer. She would declare herself to Mrs. Shelley. She took up her bonnet and parasol, and marched up the quiet, sleepy street to the Casa Bertini. The heat was so oppressive she had to pause at the top of the street to catch her breath. Her breakfast was disagreeing with her and she felt light-headed. She took a few deep breaths, then knocked at the door of the Shelleys’ home.
   After a few moments of dreadful suspense, the door was opened by a man she had never seen before; not a servant, but an older English gentleman, carelessly attired in rumpled clothing, with thinning hair and a prodigious nose.
   “Yes, madam?” the man said.
   “I am Mary Bertram,” Mary heard herself say. “Is Mrs. Shelley within?”
   The man opened and closed his mouth twice, then said, “I—well—just a moment please.”
He turned back into the hallway and called, “My dear! My dear, there is a young lady here—she is looking for Mary....” A female voice answered from within, and at last, a handsome-looking older woman, plainly but neatly dressed, came to the door.
   She looked up and down at Mary with an intelligent, appraising look and said, “I am Mrs. Gisborne, a friend of Mrs. Shelley. I’m sorry, I did not hear your name.”
   “I am Mary Bertram—I have been staying here at Bagni di Lucca, and made the acquaintance of...” Mary stopped herself—she could not actually claim acquaintance with Mrs. Shelley, because the lady might appear in a moment and deny it.
   “Oh! Mary told me, most positively, she had met no-one at all since coming here.”
   “Yes,” added the man. “We thought she would be passing her birthday all alone, you know. That’s why we came from Livorno.”
   Mary nodded. “Her birthday—yes, just so.” She had not anticipated having these two strangers for an audience and was adjusting her thoughts, when the lady asked: “Did Mrs. Shelley not inform you of her departure? Did she send you no note? But, to be sure, it was unplanned and she left in such a hurry!”
   “What—is she gone then, ma’am?”
   “Yes,” the man chimed in. “Yes, Mrs. Shelley and the children left for Venice this morning.”
   “Not Venice, Mr. Gisborne,” the lady corrected him. “They are going to—”
   “But wait!” cried the man, looking at Mary suspiciously. “You are not enquiring in any official capacity, are you?”
   Mary was too confused by the question to make any sort of reply, even in denial.

 ​   “Perhaps she was sent by the landlord? Mary asked us—”
   “Oh, tush, husband!” cried the lady. “She is English. Pardon me, madam,” she added, turning back to Mary.      “Mrs. Bertram, you say? Mrs. Shelley, I am certain, did not mention meeting a Mrs. Bertram.”
   “Rather,” Mary suddenly thought to say, “that is, my acquaintance was with Miss Clairmont, in point of fact—you say they are gone?” Mary tried to look past the Gisbornes, into the house behind them. “All gone?”
   “Yes, this morning,” Mrs. Gisborne repeated politely.
   “And—she took the dear, dear children with her?”
   This last improvisation convinced Mrs. Gisborne that the stranger on the doorstep was indeed a friend of the family, and she responded in a more confiding manner: “Yes, gone very early in the morning, and the poor baby was most unwell. She is teething. I am very anxious for her. It is dreadful to be travelling with little children in this heat! I advised Mrs. Shelley against it, but she would go!”
   “I am quite surprised—that is, I was given to understand they intended to remain here for another month at least, so I did not expect to hear they are gone so abruptly.”
   “Yes!” nodded the man. “In point of fact, Mary—I mean Mrs. Shelley—had just invited us to come and stay with her here, whilst her husband was gone. It is her birthday, you know. Poor girl. Then a letter arrived from Shelley yesterday, urgently demanding she come away, and now, here we are, left behind to pack up the last of their things.”
   “How very obliging of you, Mr.—Mr. Gisborne?” Mary murmured uncertainly.
   “Yes,” his wife repeated patiently. “I am Maria Gisborne, and this is my husband.”
   “So very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Mary returned, trying to think of an opening, more questions to pose. The sun was beating down on her back and she longed to be invited in. “Perhaps, Mrs. Gisborne,” she ventured, “perhaps Mrs. Shelley’s sudden departure has to do with the Italian servant, and the—incident. Perhaps they wanted to remove their manservant from the reach of the authorities here.”
   “Incident?” said Mr. Gisborne.
   “You recall, dear, Mary mentioned it to us. A stabbing in the village,” Mrs. Gisborne replied, then turning again to Mary, she added decisively, “I think not, Mrs. Bertram. Why would Mrs. Shelley risk the health of her child for a servant of no very good character? Especially if he was the culprit? And I do not imagine that word of the affray would have reached Mr. Shelley by the time he sent his letter. But he was most insistent that she leave immediately—immediately!”
   “I see. Then—where did you say they were going?”
   “Dear, recollect that Mary asked us—” Mr. Gisborne said.
   “Oh, very well, Mr. Gisborne, but surely she meant, not to communicate anything to the landlord or the tradespeople. Mrs. Bertram,” Mrs. Gisborne added, turning to Mary with a nod, “no doubt Miss Clairmont will send you word of their new direction, but you see, we cannot, after promising Mrs. Shelley so faithfully. I do know she is not gone to Venice, and Mr. Shelley and Miss Clairmont have departed Venice as well.”
   “I—I see,” Mary said again, and for perhaps the first time in her life, words failed her. She did not know what else to say, or to ask.
   “Well, then,” said Mrs. Gisborne, placing her hand upon the doorknob.

   Mary nodded, defeated, and started to turn away, but the courtyard began to tilt and swirl around her, and she grabbed on to the door frame to support herself.
   “You are unwell, I fear, Mrs. Bertram!” she heard Mr. Gisborne say. “Pray, come inside, come inside.”
   “I shall fetch you a glass of water,” added his wife. “Pray, sit here, ma’am. Fortunately, we still have the furniture which belongs to the house.”
   Mary glanced furtively about her and perceived the remains of a household in disarray—cupboard doors hanging open, a few books and papers strewn about, dirty platters on the table, a child’s hoop and stick abandoned in a corner. Everything spoke of a hasty removal.
   “Do you mean to say, ma’am—is it your understanding, then, that the Shelleys have no intention of returning?” said Mary faintly.
   “I hardly know. I doubt it. And at any rate, you may know enough of Mr. Shelley to be aware of his predilection for revising his plans with very little notice. They were going to settle in Pisa, then they left Pisa, they were going to live with us in Livorno, but—”
   “Shelley did not care for Livorno,” Mr. Gisborne interjected. “He did not think it interesting enough.”
   “Here is some water. Plain boiled water, from the kettle. May I offer you my smelling salts, Mrs. Bertram? You are very pale. Are you indisposed? Is there anything else I can do for you?”
   “No, no, nothing—nothing at all, I thank you. It is only the heat. Just permit me to rest for a moment.” Mary leaned her head against the wall behind her and closed her eyes. Out of the turmoil of her mind arose certain conviction—and despair.

​The best thing about the 1999 Mansfield Park movie was Lindsay Duncan in the dual role of Lady Bertram and her younger, less fortunately married sister, Frances Price. ​

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