January 1961
A romantic novel, welling from the Brontës’ original spring - the author uses their formula of an intelligent young woman alone in the world whose only resource is to venture out as a governess: in this case she finds herself in a large house complete with arrogant but fascinating widower, spoilt but unhappy child, and housekeeper and staff whose hints about the past are calculated to provoke her priggish curiosity. It is set in a Cornwall which American film companies are so good at reconstituting (one visualises instant-mix cliffs and frozen seagulls); we are told it is Victorian which allows the dialogue the licence to be glib and cumbersome - a kind of mahogany perkiness - which is both synthetic and indigestible: the whole work has about as much charm and probability as a plush camisole. It is not that I am against romantic novels - but there is no reason why they should not be well written, and I would now return to Charlotte or Anne Brontë, or to Georgette Heyer with sighs of hidebound relief.