There are actually three Judiths in this story. As the Orlando Project for Women’s Writing in the British Isle explains: “The incredibly complex plot follows three generations of Judiths and takes place across England, Scotland, Wales, and Jamaica. The story opens with the exemplary clergyman James [Mordaunt] being freed to marry Judith, firstly by getting a small living and secondly by the death of her tyrannical [step-] father. The narrative backs up to tell the story of her mother, also Judith, who was an aristocrat who married for love and was disowned.”
    And there is much more crammed into two volumes, involving dastardly villainy, several backstories, and happy coincidences. One hero—the husband of the first Judith--is wrongly thought to be dead, not once, but twice. Rev. Mordaunt, husband of the second Judith, rescues a baby boy washed ashore from a shipwreck. The infant comes complete with initialed clothing and a miniature locket of a woman. Does the clergyman place a notice in the newspapers? No, of course not! He and Judith the second keep the child. Of course, as Judith foresees, this will inevitably give rise to a love affair between this boy and their own daughter Judith (the third), so they resolve to deceive the boy and let him think that he is actually their son, so he will think of Judith the third as his sister.

   Fedaretta, like The Duke of Clarence, was published in 1795, making them the earliest titles in the attribution chain. Fedaretta was published by the more prestigious publisher Crosby, while The Duke of Clarence was published by [ahem] Minerva. No copies of Fedaretta survive in any libraries, except for an undigitized 1803 French translation which is preserved in France. Fedaretta received a review in French, which Google translates thusly:

     So much for Fedaretta, unless a surviving copy of the original English version comes to hand.

Emily of Lucerne
    Emily of Lucerne (1800) is an outlier in the 21 titles which make up the tangled attribution chain of works possibly written by the author of The Woman of Colour (1809). It is a strange pastiche of a novel of manners, set in London, with a jarringly different gothic interlude set in a castle in Europe, complete with fake ghost. My guess is that the author, who signs herself as "EMF," had an old half-finished draft novel about London society, then she grafted in a gothic short story she also happened to have lying around, to stretch the tale out to two volumes. As she had been lucky enough to place several of her manuscripts with Minerva that year, she must have quickly prepared this one and sold it to them as well, on the strength of the others.
    We start with a heroine raised in Switzerland and brought back to London after her parents die (reminder--most sentimental heroines are orphans). Having no living relatives, she is briefly under the guardianship of a wise older woman who was her father’s first love. 
     When I was reading Volume One, I felt that it was completely different from the humourless and heavy-handed moralizing of other early titles which have been attributed to “Mrs. Foster,” ( Miriam, Judith, Rebecca, Caroline & Frederic, and Concealment). For example, in Emily of Lucerne there are no references to the “Great Disposer of Events” or “The Almighty”, whom the narrator and the virtuous characters frequently reference in those novels. No admonitions to submit ourselves to the will of an inscrutable Providence. Instead we have: “For the improvement which [Emily’s] natural taste had received, she was indebted to the good St. Aubin... But the good priest [also] endeavoured to implant early in her heart a deep reverence for her Creator, under whatsoever form she chose to worship him”
    Under whatsoever form she chose to worship him? What kind of apostasy is that? 

​     Concealment is an epistolary novel, consisting entirely of letters from the heroine, Matilda Harrison, to her friend Elizabeth who is somewhere far away. While this kind of contrivance is artificial, and downright silly when it requires Matilda to reiterate events that Elizabeth, whoever she is, already knows about, it has one advantage. It restricts the story to Matilda’s limited point of view. As is typical with plots that rely upon misunderstanding, the resolution depends upon coincidence, and boy, we have some humdingers here.
   What really struck me, though, was the dark, humorless tone of this novel. There are servants, but they are not comic or garrulous. There is no gallery of fools. In fact, the entire first volume is a catalog of the misery visited upon womankind because of incompetent fathers, foppish suitors, cads and liars. The authoress does not hold back in her opinion of the tyrant man. In other circumstances, academics would regard Concealment as a feminist novel, like Mary Wollstonecraft's Maria, or the Wrongs of Women. But I doubt they would champion this book. Let's find out why.
   We begin with the heroine’s precipitate flight to Wales, then we backtrack to the tragedies that led her there...

      The plot of Frederic & Caroline depends upon misunderstanding. There are two main couples: Caroline Vincent and Frederic Godfrey, and Frederic's sister Emma Godfrey and their neighbour George Edwin. Both Frederic and George [called by his last name, Edwin, in the novel] become convinced that Caroline and Emma have been unchaste and unfaithful, and they repudiate them. Then the misunderstandings are cleared up, the girls forgive and they reconcile. 
​   Also, the plot relies upon incredible coincidence after incredible coincidence. Frederic keeps running into Caroline wherever he goes, and when he does, he always sees her in a compromising situation, though she is guilty of nothing more than filial obedience to a selfish mother. We also luckily meet up with a long-lost uncle, a long-lost stepmother, a long-lost best friend, two long-lost twin brothers, a long-lost sister, and a long-lost errant wife, each of whom has to tell us their tragic backstory. Thud! As revelations come to light, the women and sometimes the men sink senseless or lifeless to the ground...